


Hiding

by MintJam



Series: Live a lie [4]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, But that works for them, Dom/sub, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Light BDSM, M/M, Not actually that much fluff, Smut, eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 07:14:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19740796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintJam/pseuds/MintJam
Summary: Very soon Tommy is going to wake up and remember what happened last night and then … well there are a number of ways things could go, but ‘to hell’ seems the most likely.It's the morning after Tommy's midnight breakdown. Luckily Alfie has some ideas.





	Hiding

**Author's Note:**

> Set immediately after Denial, so maybe read that first for context, but it's not essential. This is set in the early months of their relationship.

Alfie wakes up early, far earlier than he’d have liked, because the curtains aren’t fully closed and light is flooding in through the large window. He can’t suppress the smile that creeps over his face when he opens his eyes and finds Tommy still fast asleep beside him. In all the nights they've stayed together (which to be fair, isn't very many) he has never woken up before Tommy. Not once. He feels like a peeping-Tom, sneaking a look at that striking face when its owner, for once, looks peaceful. It makes Alfie sad because he knows it won’t last. Very soon Tommy is going to wake up and remember what happened last night and then … well there are a number of ways things could go, but ‘to hell’ seems the most likely.

Alfie’s back is stiff and he would dearly like to stretch out his limbs but Tommy is still holding his hand; he likes the way it feels to have their thumbs entwined. He’s tempted to squeeze the pale fingers but he doesn’t want to wake Tommy, even like this he looks exhausted. It’s little wonder, given the night they had – Alfie is still in shock at the ferocity of Tommy’s nightmares, the tears, the strange semi-hypnotic state he seemed to enter afterwards. It occurs to him that he has no idea whether it’s ever happened before, is this something Tommy deals with on his own? The thought alone makes his heart clench. Because whilst Tommy gives every impression of being in control, Alfie now knows, has cast iron fucking _proof_ , that it isn’t true. Not always. And it’s one thing having that knowledge, but quite another knowing what the hell to do with it.

Alfie sighs, he’s not used to dealing with that much emotion in a month let alone a single night. And he’s certainly not used to looking after anyone but himself. He didn’t ask for any of this...downright inconvenient having feelings for fucks sake. He wishes he could leave Tommy like this, let him sleep for a few more hours. It would do him some good, but the maids’ll be up soon and there’s the kid to think about too; they can’t risk being found like this, in the same room. So he lies there, listening to Tommy’s breathing for a few more precious minutes before he shuffles closer to plant a gentle kiss on his forehead, stroking the dark hair out of Tommy’s eyes as he whispers, “morning beautiful.” Tommy grumbles and furrows his brow at the endearment, but keeps his eyes clamped shut.

“Time to wake up,” he says gently, squeezing the hand now. Tommy inhales deeply and blinks his eyes open, pupils focusing on Alfie briefly before scanning around the room, no doubt trying to place where he is.

“In case you're wondering, we are enjoying the hospitality of one of your many grand guest bedrooms,” Alfie states, by way of explanation. “I’m guessing you’ve never been in here before, what with having so many of the bloody things.”

“Alfie,” he mumbles softly.

“The one and only,” Alfie smiles. _Maybe things will be alright._ “Not a bad bed this, all things considered. Stood up well to last night's activities anyway. There's probably only another 99 to try before we can consider the whole place christened. Or fucked … depending on your religious persuasion.” He’s rambling, and he knows it, but he’s trying to delay the somewhat imminent moment when Tommy is going to remember what else happened last night and no doubt flip out in some way. More likely flip in knowing Tommy.

And then he catches Tommy studying the scratch-marks on his cheek and it’s almost as if he can see the cogs whirring inside his head, memories of the argument, the nightmare, the aftermath coming back to him … the veil being drawn down. Alfie’s heart sinks. Right on cue, Tommy squeezes his eyes shut tightly, pulls his hand away and places his arms up over his head, covering his face. It’s the exact same pose he adopted in the midst of his nightmare and the recollection twists in Alfie’s guts. Life would be so much easier if he didn’t give a shit. If. Well, it’s not like he thought this was gonna be easy. He’s just got to find a way to make this bearable for Tommy. He looks sadly at the grown man, hiding in his own arms.

“You do know I can still see you, right?” he says, aiming for humour (always worth a try), “…even with your eyes closed and your hands up. Thought you’d have worked that out by now.”

Tommy says nothing.

“Yeah, the whole _I can’t see you so you can’t see me_ thing only really works up until about the age of 3. Most human offspring work out it’s a myth after that. Thought you would've known that, what with having a kid an' all.”

Tommy just curls in on himself, taking a deep breath, hunching his shoulders and pulling his knees up. Alfie pauses, considering what to do. He places his hands around Tommy’s forearms and tugs gently, but it’s clear they're not going to give, so he doesn’t force it, just rests his hands there. He knows that Tommy is mortified. He totally lost it in front of Alfie, laid himself bare, and now he has no fucking idea how to deal with that. He probably has no precedent for it, most likely hasn’t cried in front of anyone in years. Even when his wife died Alfie guesses.

“Tommy, it’s alright,” he says softly. “It’s just me, yeah?” He pulls on the forearms again, but Tommy has them clamped in place like iron, is now gripping tufts of his own hair too. Alfie's attempt to unlock the arms only succeeds in dragging Tommy’s entire form closer to him across the mattress, which isn’t an entirely undesirable result. He wraps his arms around the rigid ball of limbs and envelops him in an admittedly rather uncomfortable hug.

“I know you don’t know how to deal with this, but short of a black hole opening up in this very room and swallowing you – or me, or maybe both of us – you are going to have to say something to me. At some point.” _Because that is just a fact._

Tommy lets out a groan.

“And if it’s any consolation, I have no idea how to deal with this either. I mean if Debrett’s has published anything on the etiquette of dealing with your lover’s total emotional breakdown then I’m afraid I missed that edition,” Alfie muses. He releases him from the hug. It really is impossible to hug someone who is braced against it.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy says from somewhere behind his arms.

“I’m not asking you to be sorry am I? You don’t need to be sorry. I’m pretty sure you didn’t ask for any of this shit,” Alfie says, frustrated. He wishes he knew what to say, how to make Tommy see.

“And if it’s any consolation then I’m fucking sorry too.”

“Why?” Tommy whispers, looking out from his arms for the first time, letting them fall.

“For throwing an ashtray at you.”

“S’alright. You missed.” Tommy mumbles.

“You didn’t,” Alfie retorts, rubbing the nail marks on his left cheek, and instantly regretting it. Tommy’s eyes dart to the wound he left in the midst of his nightmare and something flickers behind his eyes, Alfie can't read quite what. All he knows for sure is that Tommy looks so tired, like he's been up for many nights. Which he probably has, Alfie now realises. He instinctively brings a hand up to stroke the sharp cheekbone, thumbing the dark circle under one eye.

“What the fuck happened last night, Tommy?”

“I don’t know,” Tommy answers, so quietly Alfie almost doesn’t hear him. “I didn’t know I was gonna… _fuck_ …I just don’t fucking _know_ …sometimes I just…” and Alfie can see his face hardening, defences going back up and he doesn’t know how to stop it, “…implode or something. I don’t … I _can’t_ , Alfie,” Tommy sighs.

“Can’t what Tommy?”

“I can’t _do_ this. Can’t let you…” and he trails off yet again, making no sense.

“Can’t let me what?” Alfie says, trying to sound far more gentle than he feels, because actually, he wants to shake him. “Hold you? Comfort you? Fuck some sense back into you? What is it I can’t do Tommy 'cause I gave it my best shot last night.”

Tommy pauses, collecting his thoughts. "You were perfect," he whispers earnestly. With that Alfie pulls him close, forcing him into a hug, resting his chin on the top of the dark head. He can feel breath on his neck – warm and soft. He squeezes a little too hard, because he wants to imprint the feeling in his bones before Tommy withdraws, puts an end to it.

“Charlie’ll be up soon. The maids. I can’t be here,” Tommy says.

“I know,” sighs Alfie, resigned.

He closes his eyes as Tommy gets up and leaves. He doesn’t want to watch him go.

———

Half an hour later Alfie is sitting in the oak-panelled dining room feeling faintly ridiculous. There’s no sign of Tommy, unless you count the enormous portrait that taunts him from the wall. The whole room makes him feel uncomfortable, but he can’t ignore his stomach, which is angrily reminding him that he missed dinner last night. He takes a deep breath, accepts the offer of tea and wonders how quickly he can get out of here.

“Where is Mr Shelby?” he asks the dour servant when she returns with toast and eggs.

“He’s having breakfast downstairs, with his son,” she replies, and Alfie can’t work out whether the sour look on her face signals disapproval of this arrangement or of Alfie himself. He doesn’t really give a fuck either way. He eats in silence, thinking how ironic it is that Tommy lives in all this grandeur, yet is eating in the kitchen, with the servants.

He decides to wander downstairs when he’s finished, figuring he should at least say goodbye. Turns out it's not too hard to find the kitchen if you’re following the screams of a clearly disgruntled child. He stops to one side when he reaches the doorway, he can see Tommy through the hinges, sitting with his back to Alfie, elbows resting on his knees. He’s attempting to feed the boy some sort of porridge, although most of it is being thrown on the floor, or the table, or Tommy's suit by the looks of it, accompanied by various shouts of “no,” or “not you.” Tommy jumps out of the way of one well aimed spoonful, which would almost make Alfie smile, if he didn’t look so sunken. And then Charlie says “mamma,” and Alfie watches Tommy’s head drop between his knees for a few long moments. A maid appears from somewhere and rests a hand lightly on his shoulder, offering to take over. She asks if it’s his head, if he needs his medicine, but Tommy just takes a deep breath and sits bolt upright again. The forced cheer in his voice when he says, ‘come on Charlie, one more for Daddy,” makes Alfie feel desperately sad, and somehow inadequate. He doesn’t know this part of Tommy’s life, has never seen this side of him before and he doesn’t know what to do with it. So he slinks back up the stairs, out of the front door, and back to London.

———

Four nights later, he is standing barefoot in his kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil. He’s had a frustrating day at the bakery, the damp weather is playing havoc with his leg and Tommy has stood him up. Again. It’d be simpler if Alfie was just fucking angry with the man, but strangely, and somewhat surprisingly, he finds he’s not. He has spent the week trying not to examine his emotions on the topic too closely but he is weary...and disappointed. And, alright, worried. It’s fucking _tiring_ having feelings for that infuriating gypsy. He just wants to get into his bath, soak out his pains and go to bed.

When the whistle finally sounds, he takes the kettle off the enamelled stove and carries it through to the living room, pouring the final measure of water into the large bath he’s dragged in. He pours a generous glug of olive oil in too, it's good for his irritated skin. He has an internal bathroom now, which would undoubtedly be easier – he wouldn’t have to heat all these pans for a start – but it’s not like he has anything better to do. Besides, the upstairs tub is small, the water never hot enough and he can’t help it if he’s attached to the huge old-fashioned, copper bath. He can properly stretch his leg out in it – and he likes bathing in the living room, with the fire lit, surrounded by his books. It’s a small luxury after this shitty week and he’s damned well going to enjoy it.

He’s just fetched towels from upstairs and is limping back down painfully when there’s a knock at the front door. He knows immediately it’s gonna be Tommy, of _course_ it fucking is, because who else would dare to knock on his door at nearly 10 o’clock at night? He doesn't know how to play this. He's fucked off with the man – he's wasted precious energy hoping and worrying about him – but when he opens the door, face carefully set in a scowl, his heart jumps in his chest. It's fucking involuntary and fucking infuriating and he has to suppress the urge to grab Tommy with both hands and drag him inside, because he ought to be bloody _angry_. That would be the _appropriate_ emotion here.

It's raining. Hard. Tommy looks like he has just swum up the Thames. Water drips off the front of his cap, the hem of his coat, the tips of his fingers.

“You were supposed to meet me four hours ago,” Alfie says bluntly, leaning one hand on the door frame. He's genuinely intrigued as to what excuse he’s going to come up with.

“I got lost,” Tommy replies, somewhat implausibly. It’s so ridiculous that Alfie just grunts, shakes his head and steps aside, letting him in. “Fucking hazard,” he murmurs, more to himself than Tommy, as he closes the door. Tommy just stands there for a moment, seemingly unsure what to do.

“Well take your fucking clothes off before you soak the place,” he snarls, “you’re pissing all over my floor.” Tommy removes his cap and sets about discarding the wool coat, so heavy with rain that it sticks to him, taking his suit jacket with it too, until he’s stood in only his shirt and waistcoat (also wet, Alfie notes). He wipes his face on the sleeve of his shirt and runs a hand through his wet hair. He’s shivering but trying not to let it show.

“I don’t know how to do this, Alfie,” he says.

“Well, no. Clearly,” says Alfie, as he turns on his heel, “turning up when you say you will might be a start” he adds, disappearing into the living room.

Tommy follows, self-consciously, and immediately spots the freshly drawn bath, steaming in front of the well-stoked fire. “Sorry,” he says looking at the floor. “You’re busy, I’ll go.”

“No. You fuckin’ won’t, mate. You’ll bloody well get in it.” Alfie snaps, putting down the towels. Tommy opens his mouth and is about to protest, but Alfie’s not in the mood,

“Don’t fuckin’ argue with me Tommy,” he warns, running his fingers crossly through his hair. He takes a deep breath in, then out. “It’s late. Everything aches and I haven’t got the energy. I mean I really fuckin’ haven’t, alright? Just take your clothes off and get the fuck in – before you catch your death.”

And Tommy obeys, sitting down on the edge of the sofa to untie his shoes.

“Look at the state of you,” Alfie mumbles – arms folded like some impatient schoolmaster overseeing an errant pupil. "You spend months being put back together in a hospital bed and then just decide to hell with everything eh? For a clever man you can be so _fucking_ stupid, Tommy." Sensibly, Tommy doesn't answer, because whatever he said now would only infuriate Alfie more. Instead he maintains focus on his boots and tries not to make it worse by shaking too obviously.

Alfie can’t bare it any more, can’t watch Tommy’s frozen fingers struggle with the laces. “Fucks sake, let me do it. Fucking _useless_ …” he groans as he bends down, knees cracking, to help remove the soaked footwear. By the time Alfie has pulled off the sopping socks, Tommy has managed to shrug out of his waistcoat and is now fighting with the buttons of his shirt. He doesn't seem to be able to do anything properly. Alfie stands up irritably and just yanks the damp shirt roughly over his head, followed by the undershirt.

“Up, up” he huffs, pulling Tommy to his feet, because his patience has finally run out; he’s been out of sorts all week, everything aches and now he’s going to forfeit his bath because Thomas _bloody_ Shelby has turned up looking like a drowned rat on his doorstep. There’s only so much one short-tempered man can take.

“You got a fucking deathwish, Tommy, walking around in this?” he asks, gesturing at the window, because the man is clearly fucking freezing, skin as cold as ice, and god knows how long he’s been out there. Tommy shrugs out of his trousers and underwear sheepishly and walks over to the tub. Alfie watches from the sofa as he steps in, drawing his knees up and hugging them with his arms, as if even the hot water isn’t enough to warm him. When Tommy's safely in the tub, and, Alfie figures, unable to make a fast getaway, he draws a stool up alongside and sits down.

“Right, now we need to get a few things straight…” he starts. Tommy looks up at him through his eyelashes, clearly dreading this conversation. He's damn well gonna listen, because Alfie has set his mind on that.

“First things first. There's something we're gonna have to acknowledge here. _This_ , whatever _this_ is, it's more than just fucking. Hmmm?” And it might sound like a question, but he’s not really asking, he’s telling. "Because when you _worry_ about someone, and you _care_ if they're alright and you want to...I don't know...maybe make them _smile_ once in a while...that is more than just fucking." There, he's said it. That is how he feels and Tommy might as well know it.

“Second...," he starts, and he leans closer to Tommy, looks him right in the eye, "if I have to witness that fucking _mess_ in the middle of the night – you tearing yourself apart like that – then we ain’t pretending that it didn’t happen.” He glares at Tommy as if to emphasise his point, and then jabs a finger at his temple as he goes on... “because I have seen inside that head of yours and it ain’t pretty, and it ain’t kind. But… and I refer back to my first point here … this is more than just fucking. So you are gonna have to deal with the fact that I bloody well _care_. Alright?” Tommy inhales deeply before resting his forehead on his knees…hiding his face, making himself small. And that gesture, the way he just turns away when he doesn't know how to take something, well it just riles Alfie beyond belief. He is opening himself up here, laying his feelings on the line, and Tommy just...shuts him out. Fucking hides. And something in Alfie is about to absolutely snap.

“Three," he growls, "Stop. Fucking. Hiding!” he lunges towards the bath, grabs a handful of Tommy’s hair and pulls, forcing him to look up, as he shouts again, “stop _fucking_ hiding from me.” He pushes himself up from the stool, yanking Tommy’s head sharply before releasing his grip on the hair, which sends the smaller man crashing into the side of the bath with a loud splash. He can feel rage rippling from the pit of his stomach and he needs to calm down. If he wasn’t angry before, he fucking well is now. How can the man turn up in his house and not fucking look at him when he's speaking? When he's trying to say something important? Alfie steps back, trying to compose himself, but suddenly he really resents Tommy, sitting in _his_ fucking bath. He starts unceremoniously stripping off his undershirt, unbuttoning his trousers.

“Move the _fuck_ up,” he snarls, “leg’s killing me.” He hops around for a moment removing the last of his clothes, one foot stuck in his shorts so that he nearly stumbles, before he is finally naked. When he looks back up, Tommy is staring at him, wide-eyed and startled. His face is dripping with water, mouth open with a look that’s half panicked, half defiant. And _fuck_ , Alfie can't keep up with his own shifting emotions here, now he's done for, because the man in his bath looks absolutely beautiful. Sullen and tired and slightly taken aback, but absolutely _fucking_ beautiful. It’s no good, he just _wants_ him. He leans down and grabs Tommy’s dark hair again, pulling it back a little too zealously, eliciting a pained cry as he forces Tommy’s mouth up to his. Then he kisses him hard, rage melding into something hot and needy and far more carnal. He pulls harder, exposing Tommy’s pale throat, which he proceeds to lick and suck and bite until Tommy is hissing and gripping the bath sides with both hands. And then Alfie climbs in, water sloshing onto the floor as they fight to bring their bodies closer, legs slipping and hands groping as they manoeuvre themselves clumsily until Tommy is pushed up against one end, Alfie astride his lap, kissing him with a hunger he can barely contain.

This is what Tommy needs, Alfie has come to realise. This is his way of accepting affection, by being _forced_ to accept it, by having his power taken away. As if driven by that knowledge, Alfie places one hand round Tommy’s neck, applying enough pressure to make him gasp. He growls when Tommy’s eyes widen and leans down to whisper in his ear, “you are gonna stop hiding from me, and stop hiding from your feelings Tommy. It’s fucking pathetic, right? You are gonna look at me, and I mean right fucking _at_ me, until I say you can look away. Understood?”

He waits a few more seconds, until Tommy gives a small nod, before releasing the grip on his hair and sitting back. And then Alfie makes himself comfortable, leaning against the opposite end of the bath, enjoying the feeling of stretching out at last. He puts one hand under the water and strokes himself, firmly. He’s hard, very hard. Not surprising given the view: Tommy Shelby, hair slicked back, eyes half lidded, lit by the glow from the fire. He has that fusion of lust and humility written all over his face and it fucking _does_ things to Alfie. He strokes himself again, holding eye contact, making absolutely no attempt to hide how good it feels, taunting Tommy with it.

"Mmmm...think I could come just looking at your face. Not sure I even need to do this," he moans. "Just feels so good though...nice, slow strokes."

Tommy does as he's told and watches, jaw clenched, lust and frustration radiating off him. After a minute or so he groans and reaches his hand beneath the water towards his own obvious arousal. _Oh no you don't, mate_ Alfie thinks, that is not how this works. _That is just a fucking liberty._

“Did I say you could touch yourself?” he asks calmly.

“No,” Tommy breathes, blinking slowly, swallowing hard.

“Hands up where I can see them then,” Alfie rasps, pulling at himself again. He watches as Tommy reluctantly brings his hands up and places them on the sides of the bath. He picks up one foot and nudges at Tommy’s balls, making him flinch as he runs his toes up and down a few times.

"Someone's needy eh?" he says, before withdrawing the touch completely. He's watching Tommy intently, toying with him, committing the reactions to memory. He likes making Tommy watch, not letting him touch, seeing it wind him tighter and tighter. And it turns out that he rather likes being watched too, mainly because it is tormenting Tommy, but he's always pleased when it's a win-win. 

“You know what really turns me on?” he asks.

“No,” mutters Tommy, gripping the bath.

“The fact that you’re gonna let me do exactly what I want, Tommy. Exactly as I please.” He can hear Tommy’s breathing falter, Alfie knows _precisely_ which buttons to press even as Tommy tries to fight it. “And you’re gonna do _exactly_ as I say,” he adds.

“Maybe,” Tommy breathes, defiance stirring behind his eyes.

“Oh, maybe is it?” Alfie smirks, “ _maybe_ you’re already doing it mate. _Exactly_ what I want. Holding this tub instead of your cock. Holding eye contact. Because I _told_ you to.” And he knows that saying everything out loud is a risk, it's the thing Tommy finds hardest, but at the same time he can see his knuckles whiten as he clenches the bath tighter. _Nah, he’s in the mood to obey,_ Alfie deduces, and it makes him feel _dangerous_. He strokes himself again whilst he thinks about exactly what he wants Tommy to do. So many possibilities, so many potential outcomes... 

“Get out of the bath Tommy,” he murmurs. Tommy doesn’t seem to register the instruction straight away, he squints slightly, staying put.

“Get out of the fucking bath,” Alfie repeats and Tommy just stares at him, whether in defiance or confusion he isn't sure yet.

“I am gonna fuck you _hard,_ Tommy. But not in here. My knees aren’t up to that. So you are going to get out of the _fucking_ bath.” He watches realisation sink in, as Tommy hauls himself up slowly, uncertainly.

“Go and bend over that sofa. Wait for me,” he says, nodding towards a small sofa next to the fire. He's doing his best to look perfectly relaxed, even though he is vibrating with anticipation. He continues to stroke himself slowly, reclined against the back of the bath, making no efforts to get himself out, because he is not the one being tested here, is he?

“Get on with it then,” he barks, because Tommy has stopped; he's blushing furiously, seemingly unable to move. He knows Tommy won't like this, will feel exposed, humiliated, which is of course _exactly_ why Alfie is making him do it.

“Is something not clear, love?” Alfie asks, deliberately obnoxious, wanting to see how far he can push him. 

“No. Just cold” Tommy says hovering with one leg in the bath, one out. 

“Didn’t seem to bother you earlier,” Alfie notes, “when you thought wandering the streets was a perfectly good idea. Hmmm?" He can't resist the chance to point that out again. "Don’t worry. You ain’t gonna be cold when I’ve finished with you.”

Tommy takes his other foot out of the bath and stands, dripping next to the fire. For all his hesitation, his arousal is plain to see, which is why Alfie continues to push him. That, and the fact that a vulnerable Tommy Shelby, struggling to follow Alfie's rules, happens to do things for Alfie on a very base level. "Go on then," he continues. "Get to it."

Tommy takes a few paces fowards, until he's standing right in front of the sofa. He looks back at Alfie, over his shoulder, pausing for a few seconds as if checking that he really has to go through with this. Alfie just nods at him. Finally he drops to his knees.

“That’s it, now bend the fuck over,” Alfie snarls. He watches Tommy move his hands onto the sofa cushions, leaning forward slightly, but with his arms locked straight. 

"That's really not bending over now is it?" Alfie says, exasperation clear in his voice. He groans as he hauls himself out of the water. "I swear to god Tommy, if I have to come over there and make you..." 

“Fucks sake Alfie,” Tommy rasps, holding himself up, splaying his fingers but refusing to sink forward.

Alfie strides over, stands behind him and waits. He's registered Tommy's turmoil, of course he has, but he is shamelessly enjoying every moment of it. He focuses on the sound of the fire, of the wood as it pops and crackles in the grate, and he just waits. Doesn't move. Neither of them does.

After what feels like five minutes, but is probably only two, Alfie's patience is thinning. "I'm waiting, Tommy," he says coldly. He's surprised and intrigued, because he expected Tommy to have given in by now. It seems he is finding this particular challenge harder than Alfie anticipated, which does nothing to quell his arousal, it only fuels it. Alfie leans down, places his hands on Tommy's back and applies gentle pressure, urging him down. Still Tommy resists, breathing shakily, arms trembling. Alfie senses he’s close to breaking a limit.

“What’s the matter Tommy, thought you liked hiding?" he says, sinking carefully down to his knees. He leans forward and breathes into Tommy’s ear, “go ahead, bury your pretty little head in those seat cushions, I don’t need to see your face for this, darling.” Tommy is starting to shiver again now, whether from cold or anticipation Alfie doesn’t know, but he wraps one arm around his middle, pulling him into his chest anyway. 

“Of course, if you’re not in the mood, then fine,” he teases, reaching round to feel Tommy’s cock as he says it. It's hard as ice when he wraps his fingers round it. “Certainly _feels_ like you're in the mood though," he drawls, chuckling as Tommy jerks his hips reflexively, desperate for the touch.

"Ah, ah, ah, you know what you’ve gotta do Tommy," Alfie chides, taking his hand away and tutting. And then he shifts up a gear, because he is getting cold, he is tired of waiting and Tommy is going to _do_ as he is damn well _told_. "Bend. The fuck. Over. Now,” he spits, lacing his voice with as much aggression as he can muster through the sheer lust that is coursing through him. For good measure he lays three harsh smacks to Tommy's arse, knowing they'll hurt, he hasn't taken his rings off. Maybe it's the pain, or maybe just the shock, but with that Tommy caves in, bending low over the sofa, pushing himself out with a deep groan as he finally surrenders. Alfie shuffles backwards to admire the view. "There, wasn't so difficult now, was it?"

He lets the seconds tick by, partly to enjoy the sight of Tommy waiting obediently for him, red marks blooming on his skin, but mainly to increase his shame. “Hmmm...now that is a site to behold," he hums appreciatively. "Spread your legs, there's a good boy,” he instructs, slapping the inside of each thigh. He reaches back for the bottle of olive oil lying next to the bathtub, and pulls out the cork with his teeth. He coats his hand in oil and reaches between Tommy’s legs, running two fingers up and down his cleft, making him whimper. Eventually, he slips the fingers inside, rubbing Tommy's back soothingly with his other hand, helping him adjust. It's not long before he is moaning shamefully and rocking back onto Alfie's hand. When he's ready, exactly as promised, Alfie fucks him _hard_ , holding his shoulders down and pounding into him with as much force as his knees can take. He can't help but bask in the muffled grunts being knocked from Tommy’s mouth with every thrust. Their damp bodies slap together obscenely as Alfie fucks into him, taking his own pleasure selfishly for once, because he feels he's fucking _earned_ it.

When he’s achingly close Alfie slows down, wraps both arms around Tommy’s chest and heaves him up from the sofa, straightening his back until they are both kneeling upright, bodies still joined. Tommy leans back against Alfie's chest, grinding his hips, draping his arms around the back of Alfie’s neck, pulling him closer, wanting more. He tips his head back, resting it on Alfie’s shoulder, exposing his neck whilst he moans brazenly. And fuck, he is struggling to hold himself back. The sight of Tommy, wanton, bared for him, coated in sweat from the effort of _taking_ him...it's almost too much.

“Fucking _hell_ Tommy,” he breathes, placing one hand around his lover's throat, tightening the grip enough to hold him still. "Shhhhh," Alfie whispers, because Tommy is moaning loudly, desperately now, lost in his need. "It's OK, love, I've gotcha," he coos, sliding his other hand down over Tommy's stomach, splaying fingers over the taut muscles, holding him firmly in place, allowing no escape as he continues to sink into him.

“Touch yourself,” he rasps, and Tommy doesn’t need to be told twice, he takes his aching erection in hand, setting a frantic pace. Alfie holds his throat tighter, “I’m gonna watch you come, love, gonna fuck you _right_ through it.” It’s taking every last drop of his willpower to hold back from his own release, but he is fascinated, desperate to watch Tommy come undone. He bends his knees, changing the angle just slightly and suddenly Tommy groans so obscenely that Alfie lets go of his throat and pushes two fingers into his mouth instead, holding his tongue down as orgasm overwhelms him. Tommy gags into it, sucking Alfie's fingers, gasping for breath. And Alfie continues to fuck him – even as he feels Tommy’s whole body giving way – has to hold him up while he delivers the final few thrusts that bring him to his own intense climax.

They both collapse onto the floor, sprawled on their backs by the fire, panting and struggling for breath. Tommy gazes over at him wide-eyed, shuddering. The corners of his mouth are turning up into an actual smile, and he lets out a sound that could almost pass for a laugh. Alfie leans over and kisses him softly, pulling him into a hug, savouring the moment. "Bloody hell..." Alfie sighs eventually, "I am gonna end up in an early grave."

After a few minutes, Tommy closes his eyes, “Alfie,” he croaks, voice hoarse.

“Hmmmm?”

“I’m starving.”

And then it’s Alfie’s turn to laugh. “Fuck off,” he says, propping himself up on one elbow to take a look. “Will wonders never cease?” He is so pleased he almost runs to the kitchen to see what he can find. He returns with some cold chicken pie and half a ginger cake which they sit and eat with their fingers, like schoolboys at a midnight feast, huddled under one blanket, staring into the fire. 

Eventually they make it up to bed, exhausted, sated and unable to keep their eyes open. Alfie can’t remember ever feeling this content. Or like he had so much to lose. Tommy curls into his side and enjoys his first night of unbroken sleep in many months. And for that, Alfie will take _all_ the fucking credit, thank you very much. 

**Author's Note:**

> Because really, who doesn't want to see Tommy EAT!!
> 
> Thanks for reading, would love to know what you think, positives and criticism. Preferably constructive, but I'll take any feedback. And let me know what else you'd like to read!


End file.
